


The Pancake Perspective

by Sintero, Staubengel



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, M/M, No cashiers-Hydra agents named Bob-or anonymous animals were harmed in the production of this fic, Spideypool - Freeform, for which Wade's solution is more pancakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/pseuds/Sintero, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staubengel/pseuds/Staubengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the life of a hero is too large of a burden for Peter Parker to bear alone. Luckily, for those days, there’s Wade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pancake Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration between the lovely Staubengel and I for your reading pleasure. :D

It had been a rough day. 

The third one in a row now, actually. At least it was a friday, so the weekend was close; but weekends didn’t really mean anything when you were Spider-Man. It only meant that you didn’t have to get up at 7AM to somehow drag yourself to school while still  ¾  asleep, breakfast that your aunt had forced on you only barely kept in, having forgotten to bring your homework, and hair not combed in - … okay, you never comb your hair anyway. You are not even in possession of a comb. 

Instead, it meant getting up at 9AM to do the chores and help Aunt May in the house, doing all the homework, assignments and projects that didn’t fit into the week, and then spending the rest of the day saving New York from crazy super-villains or just random, normal criminals who stole someone’s purse. Or sometimes even just rescuing a stupid kitten from a tree. 

There was always something people needed help with in New York.

This was just the normal schedule for Spider-Man. The last three days had been especially rough though, because there was a science project (and Peter loved science!) that had kept him in school overly long. Too, Aunt May was sick and Peter had to do everything he could back at home to help her out, and also try to find excuses for NOT being home at times she normally wasn’t home either but at work, assuming that Peter was doing his homework when in reality he was saving New York. 

Also there had been 5(!) massive catastrophes in only 3 days, including: a collapsing building, a burning school, an airplane threatening to crash into the main train station and - as harmless as it sounded - a random raccoon infestation. 

Peter from now on hated raccoons. 

In addition JJ was overly hateful these days and had released some new diatribes against the “Evil Web-Crawler! Does he crawl into your children’s rooms at night?!” Not to mention there was an English assignment waiting to be handed in on monday that Peter hadn’t even started on yet and that he was behind on regular homework for… oh God, far too long. 

He hadn’t slept last night because he had been busy repairing his suit (raccoons really tore spandex apart like paper. Jesus), so he was very tired. He also hadn’t really slept the night before because he hadn’t been home until 2 AM and then had spent 2 more hours doing research for his science project. 

He really needed a good grade on that one, it was basically the only thing that kept him from being thrown out of science class. And science class was the only class left with good grades. 

And the night BEFORE he hadn’t slept much because he had promised Aunt May to fix the broken fridge and of course had forgotten it until he had come home and then had been forced to leave again in the middle of the night to get some items from a tiny 24 hour store. 

At least he had gotten them for free because the shop owner was a big Spider-Man fan. Oh, yeah, speaking of which, he had promised Aunt May to go buy groceries. 

To sum it up: He had operated the last three days and nights on a total sleep count of maybe 6 hours in total and he was so tired that if someone asked, he wouldn’t even remember his own name. 

It was 10 PM and currently there was no emergency, robbery or fluffy too-dumb-to-climb-down-again-issue in sight. So Peter took a turn and swung towards the next supermarket to get the promised groceries and some new medicine for his beloved aunt. His thoughts trailed off as he swung along, getting trapped in the fog of sleepiness and exhaustion. His body felt so heavy and his mind felt like a pool of jelly. 

He drifted off, almost falling asleep while he made his way to - … Where was he going to again? … Somewhere… It had been something important… Uhm…

He tried to remember, but then forgot that he tried to remember something because his mind was getting all cloudy again. It wasn’t until he accidentally missed the arch he had aimed for with his next web-string and hit a wall that he became awake again. 

At least enough to feel the pain.

“Ouch,” he cursed, sticking with his hands to the wall that kissed his cheek, too tired to let go. “Aw, fuck, this hurts so much…”

The resounding crack of Peter’s skull meeting brick echoed throughout the desolate alleyways, making Wade pause in the doorway of what, until five minutes ago, used to be an illegal dog fighting pit. He slid a new magazine into his pistol with a click.

The telltale wet smack of flesh meeting a solid, immovable object was commonplace in his line of work, but typically, he was that solid, immovable object. Brow furrowed, Wade dutifully placed a kiss to the slide of his Desert Eagle and holstered it. If there was some punk stealing his modus operandi, he was going to show that fucker how it was done. 

He carefully picked his way through the alley to investigate, sidestepping puddles of suspicious origin and piles of refuse. 

A strikingly familiar red suit stuck to the wall across the street made him stop in consideration until realization hit him like a lightning bolt.

“Holy shit, Baby Boy!” he called up from below, breaking into a low, loping run. Skidding to an abrupt stop, Wade slammed his hands against the wall hard enough to bring down a shower of loose brick-dust. “Hey! Pe—Spidey, are you okay?” he called up urgently, voice thin. “When I said we should totally get together for pancakes tonight this isn’t really what I had in mind!”

Peter groaned in complete resignatation as he heard the very familiar voice of his favourite mercenary (and there was really only one mercenary he liked, anyway) from across the street and then even from right beneath him. Still he didn’t let go of the wall, because that would mean effort and effort was not an option right now.

“Thanks, Deadpool,” he muttered, his cheek still pressed against the wall. “I was trying to be low-key here, but now the whole of New York knows I just face-planted into a brick wall. Have you texted JJ about this yet? I’m sure he’ll help you broadcast it. He’s in such a good mood again this week anyway. And besides - “ He finally just made his fingers unstick, letting himself fall from the 3 meters of height he was currently hanging on, pretty sure Wade would catch him before he hit the ground. “...it feels good to be a pancake for once. It’s a new life perspective. Never know - oof (at this he landed gracefully as a wet sack in Wade’s strong arms) - when it’s gonna be useful.”

Wade braced his knees and caught Peter effortlessly, wrapping him in the heavy weight of his arms.

“A new perspective, eh? Jesus, Spidey. You know, if you wanted me to cover your nubile body in syrup all you had to do was ask,” he retorted with a lecherous grin that somehow translated through his mask.

Peter groaned again and hit Wade against the chest. It was only symbolically though and without the intention to hurt him, despite the fact that Wade would have deserved some pain for this comment. 

But his arms felt far too secure around Peter, his chest far too warm, and all he wanted to do right now was to rest his face against it and sleep. Sleep… He wanted to sleep… He was so tired that he couldn’t even come up with a good response to Wade’s pancake-fantasy. There was just a big, blinking “ERROR”-message in the middle of his brain. Had this ever happened before? … What had even been Wade’s comment again? Ugh. He would just ignore it. 

“Alright, thanks for saving me, big guy,” he said as cheerfully as he could. “But you can lemme go now, I have some serious hero-stuff to attend to. Which, for example, is to make sure no one took a photo of me taking an unvoluntary break against this wall. … Quite literally.” 

“Nice try, but I don’t think so, kid. The only serious hero stuff you have to do is sit back, shut up, and drown in the musk of my masculinity as I sweep you off of your feet and invite you to a one night only event at Casa del Deadpool!” Wade chattered excitedly, shifting Peter into a more comfortable position in his arms. 

Despite his jovial tone, he frowned imperceptibly. Peter was unusually lethargic tonight; the lack of biting sarcasm sent off alarm bells in the back of his mind. 

“Whaaaat,” this exact young man tried to protest now, squirming in Wade’s arms to get back to his own two feet. “No, lemme down. I don’t have time for this, I need to - … uh… Lettuce! And tomatoes, man! And I can’t forget about the eggs! Seriously, put me down. Go make yourself some pancakes and pretend they’re me or something. I’m all good. I just really need to leave right now, okay?” 

“Hush, you. Groceries can wait. Bitches pay top dollar for the Eau de Wade experience,” the Merc retorted with a bemused snort. “And don’t think for one minute that we won’t be addressing this new pancake fetish of yours in the future.” Effectively blocking the lackluster volley of elbows and knees that assaulted him in return, Wade laughed and held on tightly. 

Finally exhausted, Peter collapsed against his chest in defeat. Or at least that’s what Wade thought until a strategically placed elbow came down hard on his solar plexus and knocked the wind out of him. “Cheap shot, Baby Boy,” he wheezed, curling over but still not letting go of his armful of arachnid.

Peter grunted, both annoyed and angry that Wade wouldn’t let him go. “Stop that!” he complained and squirmed harder, kicking his legs. “I really need to go! I have stuff to do! And also there is no pancake-fetish to adress, the only fetish I have right now is to be left alone to get my business done! So put me down! It’s not my fault people pay top dollar for what you’re throwing at everyone for free anyway!”

“Ouch, your words wound me,” Wade moaned dramatically.

The muffled sniffle that he received in return brought him up short.

“Oh shit, Petey, what’s wrong?” he asked in a whisper, concern immediately evident in every tense line of his body as Peter’s shoulders began to shake. 

He quickly scanned the surrounding vicinity for onlookers, but the gray-washed district was just as desolate as it had been for the past hour. Luckily he wouldn’t have to make up for his slip by beating the memory of Spidey’s name out of any poor bastards within hearing range. 

With haste, Wade gently set Peter on his feet and cupped his jaw between both massive palms. “Spider-babe, you know I was just playing, right?” he asked, on the verge of panic. 

For the first time in recent memory, a curl of fear settled in the mercenary’s gut. There was something seriously wrong with this entire situation. 

Peter’s face was twisted in a mix of helpless frustration and stubborn anger, which of course Wade couldn’t see, because Peter still had his mask on. Yet he bit his lower lip nontheless, trying to suppress his sobs and sniffles. He was just… so tired. And there was so much stuff he needed to do. And the panic of Wade not letting him go, meaning Peter couldn’t attend all the urgent matters still on his To-Do-List, had made his emotions overly sensitive to stress in his current exhausted state. 

“I just -” he started, but had to stop to inhale with a little sob. “I just can’t do this right now, Wade. Aunt May is sick and she needs new medication. And I promised her to get some groceries. And I need to do that now, okay? I promised. So please just let me go, I just - … I want to finally go to sleep after all of this is done… Please...”

He sounded desperate and he knew it. But this week had been so overly exhausting and he hadn’t really slept in days and he felt on the verge of a nervous break-down if Wade wouldn’t let him go. Which, apparently, the Merc didn’t even think of doing.

All of Wade’s bluster, all of his playful teasing, evaporated instantly in the face of Peter’s tears. The dark, wet tracks on Spider-Man’s mask were incredibly jarring.

He and Peter were always pretty tactile in their affections. Sure, half of their interactions were composed of Wade pushing the boundaries of their friendship, but Peter would always rebuff his advances gently, unsure whether they were genuine and not willing to risk the chance. 

He had never directly asked for Wade to leave him alone like this, and to be honest, the rejection stung. Or maybe the part that hurt was the fact that, despite his obvious distress, Peter didn’t think to come to him for help.

Respectfully silent, Wade pulled his unresisting partner into a tight hug that nearly engulfed half of his body and placed a gentle kiss, just the press of masked lips, on the kid’s forehead. “Hey, I’ve got you, okay? Just tell me what you need me to do.”

The hug caught Peter off guard. His first reaction was to stiffen, ready to tell Wade to let him go once more. But he couldn’t. The hug felt so warm, so safe and reassuring, so tender and caring. Wade’s voice sounded so concerned, so soft and comforting. Peter hadn’t known he needed a hug so badly. 

He let his tension go and practically collapsed into the embrace, slinging his arms around Wade himself. It felt so good to be held like this. He couldn’t fall, Wade would support him. He would take care of him. He would be there, no matter what. 

“I just -” Peter began once more. But again he stopped after this because he had to sniffle. He couldn’t stop crying, even though it was embarassing. 

His body was just so exhausted. “I don’t want you to do anything,” he managed to articulate with his broken voice.  “I just need to go so I can get the groceries and the meds for Aunt May. She really needs them. Please just let me go.” 

His plea was nothing more though than a muffled sob and he actually grabbed Wade tigther. 

He didn’t want him to let go. It felt so good to be comforted by him. Wade was the only one who knew both of Peter’s identities and who knew how hard the teen struggled with both of them. He was only 18, he was still in high-school and he had his aunt to take care of. He had been left by his parents when he had been 6, he had lost his uncle and second father-figure only a few months ago, which he blamed himself for heavily. 

High-school alone would be hard enough to cope with for a teenager like this, but Peter was also Spider-Man. He felt that he had a moral obligation to do everything that he could to save New York, and for him that meant spending every free minute out on the street, even when it tore him apart like this. 

Wade knew all of that and Wade understood all of that. 

Wade was his safe haven. He didn’t ask anything of Peter, like school or New York or even Aunt May did. He was just there and Peter could count on him. Rely on him. And that was sometimes the only thing that still kept him from crashing completely. 

But he didn’t want Wade to help him out. He didn’t want Wade to burden himself with Peter’s problems. It was Peter’s own fault he couldn’t deal with all of his tasks, because he just wasn’t good enough, didn’t do enough, didn’t fight hard enough. He didn’t want Wade to stress over Peter’s incapability. So he mumbled another: “Just let me go” against Wade’s shoulder and let his arms drop again. 

The faster he got this all over with, the faster he could finally get some rest.

Wade sighed and shook his head at the countenance on Peter’s decidely expressive mask. That was the look of ‘I’m sitting here recounting every bad thing that has ever happened to me and it’s about to rain down in a firey shitstorm of teenage grief and self-loathing.’ They had worked together long enough for the mercenary to batten down the hatches on instinct whenever that particular expression arose.

Reluctantly letting his own arms drop, Wade stood up to his full height and stared off into the haze of street lights in the distance. The expectant silence between them stretched onward like a gaping chasm until he finally cleared his throat.

“You know, Webs…” he began, only to stammer to a stop. With a deep sigh, he tried once more.

“I wish that I could go back in time and change things so that you could grow up as just another care-free, snot nosed little shit. But as unbelievably kickass as I am, that’s something that’s entirely beyond my control. And really, as El Indio fire-sauce levels of shitty as your life has been, as royally fucked up as losing loved ones can be, I’m not sure that I would change a single goddamn thing even if I could.”

He blatantly ignored Peter’s sharp intake of breath and continued, unabated.

“Why? Because I’m one hundred percent a selfish asshole and, if all of the horrible crap hadn’t of happened, you wouldn’t be the same glorious arachnid that has single-handedly changed the world for the better,” Wade stated, voice thick.

He let hang the implication that the world at large wasn’t the only thing changed for the better.

Despite the tense line of his shoulders radiating his obvious need to touch, to soothe, the mercenary took a single step back.

“You’re my Baby Boy,” he stated plaintively, raising his hands in suplication. “I want to help you in any and every way that I can. But, if you genuinely want me to leave you alone, I can respect that too,” he finished, refusing to meet Peter’s eyes and instead glaring heatedly at the litter rolling by like tumbleweeds.  

Peter stared at him. He didn’t really know what to say to this, and not only because his brain was a big blank space right now that had dropped all business in protest of not having gotten enough spare time in the past days and nights. No, also because Wade not often was that serious and honest and also because the words he had said tore deep into Peter’s heart.

He never had even thought about what he would do if he had the chance to change the past. If he would keep himself from becoming Spider-Man. If he would save his uncle, even though it would change so many things. If he would let the possibility occur to not meet Wade and become friends with him. But Peter was a person that didn’t look at the things accomplished, but only at all the things  _ not _ accomplished yet or failed, and so he didn’t see the world as a better place because of him. 

He tried to achieve that, he struggled so hard for it, but in the end it was just another shitty day he had somehow survived and another shitty day others may have survived because of him. But that didn’t keep shitty days from coming and it didn’t keep the world from being shitty in the first place. 

So whatever Wade meant with that phrase didn’t make it to Peter’s heart.  _ How _ he said it though clawed at the thumping muscle in his chest heavily. 

Wade didn’t deserve this fucked-up wreck of a misery Peter was. He didn’t deserve to be burdened with Peter’s sorrows and problems. Peter felt angry at himself for making Wade feel helpless and sorry, and his chest became tight with self-loathing and pain.

He opened his mouth, but there was nothing coming out of it. Only more tears that streamed down his cheeks and more sobs instead of breathing. 

“I’m sorry, Wade…” was the only thing he finally managed to choke out, accompanied by a slight shaking of his head. “But I can’t ask this of you… It is not your burden. I can handle this myself…” He looked at the Merc for another moment, sniffling heavily because he couldn’t breathe through his tightened chest. 

Then he turned around to walk away. 

The first step however had him sway already and he stumbled against the wall that he had forgotten was there, slumping against it as he realised that he just had fucked up AGAIN and probably would kill himself on his way home because he just was stupid like that. 

No, not home. The grocery store. 

Shit, he kept forgetting the grocery store… He didn’t even know anymore what to get there for Aunt May except for the meds… Shit. Shit. What had it been. Shit.

With a desperate howl, he slid down to the ground and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t do this. He was a mess. He was a useless, incapable, sorry burden for everyone he still cared about and he could do nothing right.

Wade sat down heavily on the pavement and looped his arm around Spider-Man’s waist, pulling him close enough to feel the preternatural heat of him through his suit. They sat that way, taking strength in each other, for several long moments until Peter’s tears had abated and his shoulders no longer trembled. 

Circumspectfully rubbing his cheek against the crown of Peter’s head, Wade finally realized what he needed to do. 

He swiftly rooted around the seam of Peter’s top for the mystical dimension in which he kept his cell phone and fended off the kid’s half-hearted attempts to smack his hand away. The mercenary crowed in triumph having found what he was searching for and quickly began to scroll through the contacts for ‘Aunt May,’ cursing under his breath at his cumbersome gloves.

“Now, you may not have asked for help, but you’re the most amazing half-man, half-arachnid I know, and I’m going to give it anyways,” he muttered as he held the phone outside of Peter’s reach, thumb flying across the screen. “Now you park that bodacious ass right here and I’ll be back in a jiffy with,” Wade began, stopping to open the text response that flashed insistently on Peter’s phone. “…Lettuce, eggs, milk, butter, aaaaaaaand loratadine. Huh, sounds like the name of an expensive prostitute.”

He slapped his free hand to his face dramatically. “Aunt May, how dare you ask me to pick up a lady of the night for our pure, innocent little Kitten Pickles?”

“Stop it,” Peter sniffled. He didn’t even try to get his phone back anymore, even though he could probably have shot a web-string at it. But what for? It was too much effort, anyway. “That’s the name of her meds… Gimme back my phone, I need to grab those… Just gimme -... Gimme back my phone… Please…”

The deep seated exhaustion in Peter’s voice sliced right through to Wade’s core and made him swallow reflexively.

He leaned in close enough to simultaneously slip the cell phone back beneath Peter’s suit and bump shoulders in mute apology before slowly climbing to his feet. “Sure, you got it.”

Despite his obviously desperate need, Peter’s pride wasn’t going to allow for any assistance from Wade no matter how freely given.

“I guess I’ll just see you around, huh?”

“Yeah, I got this,” Peter assured, sounding both exhausted and relieved that Wade finally left him alone with this. “I got this, I got this… I’ll see you around, see you ‘round…” 

He grabbed the wall to drag himself back up to his feet, still sniffling a bit, even though he had stopped crying by now. He had this. He had this. He could do this by himself.

As he pushed off the wall though, his vision got hazy and he stumbled.

Instinctively, Wade leapt forward and caught Peter’s limp body before he hit the ground.

Peter did not even try to protest. He just gave a resigned groan and stayed slumped inside Wade’s arms as he was. He was defeated. There was no way he could do this by himself.

“I can’t do this….” he muttered, leaning against Wade for support, his body weak and shaking. “I haven’t got this, I can’t do this… I’m sorry, Wade… I’m so sorry…”

Deadpool sighed and muttered beneath his breath “Yeah, I kinda figured.” It was painful to watch Peter struggle with his deep seated sense of responsibility and overwhelming self-expectation. 

Shaking his head, Wade brushed off the lingering traces of emotional roller coaster that was his life as Peter’s friend and swept him up into a bridal-style embrace.

“Wha-” Peter made in confusion, almost ready to protest again. But then he remembered that he had failed twice already to walk on his own and had smashed himself against a wall while trying to swing his way along, so maybe being carried was the only option left. Also it felt good to lie in Wade’s arms like this. His strong, safe, wonderful arms that kept him warm and secure and were there to hold him. 

With a low sigh, Peter let his head drop against Wade’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, relaxing against Wade’s body. “If you could just carry me over to the grocery store… I’ll get you something from the candy section then… From there on out I can make it myself…”

Wade’s soft smile went unseen beneath the thick fabric of his mask. “Anything you need, Baby Boy,” he crooned as he started off towards the glowing store front. Flexing his arms, he held his precious cargo tightly against his chest as he navigated the filth-laden street.

“Thank you,” Peter said again. His voice was low and a bit slured, as sleep was pulling at him heavily now. The crying and the arguing with Wade had used up the last remaining bit of his strength. 

“Oh, an’ can we stoppy my school too…? Needin’ my English books frommy locker… Needo write’n assignment til monday… An do some homework… in… I dunno anymore… No, wait… Gottem at home already… Gottem at home...” It became hard to focus. His brain felt so heavy that opening his mouth alone was a terribly difficult task right now. “An’ raccoons,” he managed to mutter somehow. “Needo take care of those too… Lil monsters… Sharp teeth… ‘n’ such…”

Peter’s voice trailed off into a reedy whine, and finally into silence. 

Glancing down at his armful of spandex-clad hero, Wade canted his head, bemused. “Spidey?” he questioned tentatively, flexing his biceps to jostle the kid back into consciousness. 

Peter remained a limp fixture draped across his chest. 

“Well slap me and call me Sally. I’ve got me an armful of unconscious and barely legal,” Wade whispered reverently. Grinning beneath his mask, he shifted Peter’s boneless body onto his shoulder and gave that glorious backside a soft pat for good luck. 

The grocery store could wait.

He figured that Casa del Deadpool was probably the closest, safest place for Spider-Man to recover from his most recent moralistic self-sacrifice bender. With that in mind, Wade started to jog down the handful of blocks to the nearest subway entry. 

On second thought, perhaps he should have reconsidered their mode of transportation.

The strange looks and camera phone flashes Wade was getting as he tried to force his and Peter’s combined mass through the narrow turnstile were admittedly a bit unsettling. Maybe he didn’t quite think this one through completely. 

Regardless, he swiped his metro card and soldiered on. 

He finally settled down on an empty bench in the subway car and positioned Peter so that he was nestled under Wade’s heavy arm, masked cheek pressed against his chest.

“Yo, that Spider-Man?” the car’s single other occupant, a shabby man of indeterminate age, called out from his wide-legged sprawl.

“Nah, we’re a traveling improv group re-enacting  _ Weekend at Bernie’s,”  _ Wade responded snidely. “Any other dumb-fuck questions from the sub-way interrogation commission?”

“Jesus, man, I was just askin’,” the man said, arms upraised as he sat up slowly and attempted to shuffle his way into the next subway car without further incident.

Honestly, Wade couldn’t even remember having pulled out his side-arm. “Huh,” he grunted, returning the gun to its holster and pressing Peter more tightly against his side. The remainder of the trip was entirely uneventful. Even the streets were quiet in a way that New York never was. 

It was as if even the city sensed that Deadpool was beyond dealing with anyone’s shit. Bringing his Petey home safe was his sole mission.

“Let’s get you into your glass case, Sleeping Beauty,” he commented once they made it into the safety of his apartment.

He settled his sexy payload gently onto the couch cushions and took a moment to stand back and admire just how perfectly Peter fit into his life. The kid fit pretty damn perfectly into the void in his heart, too.

But, of course, his vacillating mind didn’t allow him to tarry in the tender moment for too long. “Mother fucker, that was Snow White in the trophy box, wasn’t it? I can’t believe I mixed up my princesses like that! Bad, Deadpool,” he hissed. With a lingering pout and a defeated sigh, he settled down onto the spare six inches of couch cushion next to Peter’s hip and reverently removed his Petey-pie’s mask.

As soon as the kid’s handsome face was revealed, expression soft and young in his restful repose, all thoughts of Disney princesses fled the mercenary’s thoughts.

Peter Parker was genuinely gorgeous, inside and out.

Wade spent several long, quiet minutes memorizing the gentle topography of his partner’s face before finally shiting his attention to the mask in his hands.

Studying the thin slip of spandex, he cocked his head and looked at the long, poorly mended rends in the cloth. He was admittedly perplexed until he recalled Peter complaining about killer raccoons the night prior. “Oh, Petey-pie,” he whispered as he stuck his finger through a frayed hole and wiggled the digit about. “When I said that we should have a crossover with the Guardians of the Galaxy, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

With a huff of laughter, he tossed the shoddily mended mask onto the coffee table, ignored for now, but not forgotten. Wade then perfunctorily removed Peter’s boots and tossed them onto the table as well. His fingers may have lingered longer than necessary on those slender, toned calves.

“Alright, sweet dreams, snookums. Just leave the rest to your hunky, neighborhood Deadpool,” he said, leaning forward to tenderly brush a stray strand of hair from Peter’s face.  He deftly retrieved Spider-Man’s cellphone from beneath his costume and tapped out a few brief messages to Aunt May.

The grocery list glared up at him from the illuminated phone screen as he promptly returned it beneath Peter’s waist band. God that kid had some killer abs, he thought, desperately resisting the urge to examine them further…for science.

Shaking his head, Wade quickly abandoned the couch cushion and left the apartment. The door locked behind him with a sharp click that felt like finality. Hopefully in the morning Peter would be able to forgive him. If, of course, Wade survived the interminable tongue-lashing he was sure to get for bringing Peter back to his place without asking.

“C’est la vie,” he sing-songed cheerily as he vaulted over the railing of the stairwell and dropped ten stories down.

Ten minutes and an uneventful stroll later, a sundry of egg cartons gazed up at him accusingly from where they were comfortably nestled in their refrigerated haven at the nearby supermarket. Wade scowled right back at the smarmy little bastards and let his hand hover over all of the different varieties in turn. 

Chewing on his bottom lip, he finally tried to envision himself as Aunt May in a last, desperate bid to make an egg-cellent choice. “And starter sensation, Wade Wilson, winds up for yet another pun-tastic pitch,” he whispered theatrically, shoulder deep in the display case. “And it’s a hit! If all goes well, tomorrow he’ll try his hand at catching!” 

He wiggling his buttocks in the air with a chuckle, eventually just loading up the cart with a few of each egg-brand. With a whoop, he took two long, running strides and careened off towards the produce department, cart rattling alarmingly. 

Stocking crew members hesitantly peered around display cases at the sound of screeching wheels and the cloying scent of burnt plastic, only to dive back into the safety of their respective aisles as Deadpool flew past. 

Wade dismounted with a flourish and settled his abused cart without so much as jostling the eggs. “Alright, Petey-pie, prepare to have your salad tossed!” he exclaimed as he gleefully skipped over to the display case of leafy greens. However, his child-like exuberance quickly shied away from the sheer quantity of rabbit food laid out before him. There were even more choices than the goddamn eggs. 

“Fuck me sideways! How many different flavors of ‘tastes like shit’ are there?” he whined as he picked up a wet leaf gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. “You know what? Screw it. I’ve got a metal boat, I may as well be new-age Noah,” he growled, loading his cart with two of each.

The milk and butter were gathered with suspiciously little production. A box of pancake mix subtly made it into the cart as well.

Finally, Wade approached the pharmaceutical aisle and paused at the end cap, taking a deep, fortifying breath and stretching as if in preparation for a fight. “All warfare is based on deception,” he began, crouching low and tiptoeing comically along the shelves. “Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable.” A flash of red feet flickered over top of the shoulder height shelves as he executed a tight side flip and came up katana drawn.  

“When using our forces, we must seem inactive.” He dropped to his stomach and army-crawled across the filthy linoleum, scanning the tiny product labels as he shuffled along, sword held before him. “When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away,” he stated sotto voce as he rolled and viciously skewered a large box of what appeared to be Woman’s pregnancy supplements. 

Flinging the sword and impaled supplement to the ground in disgust, the mercenary viciously kicked the cheerful display of offending product and screamed inarticulately at his failure. 

The pattering feet of fleeing stock crew faded until all that Wade could hear was the heavy beat of his own defeat marching ever nearer. 

Twenty minutes and countless expletives later, he finally zeroed in on the one unassuming box nestled amidst the visual perceptual nightmare of supplements and cough syrup.

With a sigh, Wade sunk down onto his haunches, muscular thighs bunched and rebelling against the seams of his suit. He reached out to stroke the small box of antihistamines and reverently cradled it in his arms like a lover, casting a fleeting glance at the price tag. “You and I are such similar creatures, Loratadine. We both screw people for money,” he whispered intimately before swirling up to toss the medication on top of his substantial haul. 

“Varying definitions of ‘screw’ of course, but same basic premise.” 

Whistling a jaunty tune, Wade unloaded his groceries onto the belt, pointedly ignoring the slack-jawed expression of shock on the cashier’s face. The young boy rallied himself admirably, though. “Good evening, sir. Did you find everything you needed?”

“Deadpool,” Wade mumbled, still unloading his cart.

“I’m sorry?” The boy sounded so lost that Wade took a shred of pity on him. “The name is ‘Deadpool,’ not ‘sir,’ kid.” He then crossed his arms over his barrel chest and stood unmoving, all attention focused on the young man who nervously started punching in produce codes. A litany of monotonous beeps filled the space between them while the cashier quailed under the force of Wade’s unblinking stare.

“Um, okay, Deadpool, sir. Your total is two hundred,” the boy began meekly as he entered in the appropriate sequence to select the tender type. With a snarl, Wade pressed his gloved palms onto the conveyor belt and leaned in. “Go on,” he said, voice laced with threat.  

“Thirty-one dollars, and,” the boy continued, shrinking down so as to make a smaller target behind the paltry protection of his register.

Wade arched his muscular torso over the plinth, sure to flex his pectorals for the greatest effect, until his face hovered a mere inch away from the terrified cashier. “And?”

“Fifty-two cents,” the cashier squeaked. 

They both stood unmoving for a long moment.

“Ahaha, I’m just fucking with you kid! Here you go, keep the change,” the mercenary finally responded, laughing uproariously and tossing a crumpled wad of hundreds at the startled cashier before retrieving his cart-full of bagged groceries and absconding into the night.

The cacophonous clatter of cart wheels accompanied him all the way to Aunt May’s quiet little suburb. 

Forest Hills genuinely was a quaint area, so different from the parts of Queens that Wade tended to frequent.

It took no time at all to locate Aunt May’s house. To be honest, Wade had staked out Peter’s address years ago when he had first realized that the kid and Spider-Man were one and the same. Just as a means to make sure Webs got home okay after his patrols, of course. There may or may not have been binoculars and a brilliantly camouflaged high-hide involved.  

Shaking away memories of fleeting glimpses of Iron Man boxer briefs, Wade adjusted the front of his suit and quickly set about unloading his supermarket haul. It took a few minutes, but Aunt May’s wouldn’t be needing groceries any time soon. 

The tower of egg cartons swayed ponderously but stayed mostly upright, leaned against the building as they were. “Now time for a little Deadpool ditch and then somnophilic cuddles with Baby Boy on the couch,” Wade whispered, clapping his hands excitedly. 

Things were really starting to come together. 

He silently climbed the side of Peter’s house and forced his way through Peter’s unlocked bedroom window. His muscular torso may have dented the window frame in his haste to retrieve the book bag, but ah well. Flipping off of the roof, Deadpool silently mounted the porch once more and jammed his gloved finger into the doorbell.

Without looking back, he lifted the cart over his head and hauled ass down the street.

However, his flight was reined in abruptly by the sight of a pristine, black Mercedes coupe with gold trim parallel parked in front of a fire hydrant. Now, that was just rude. Wade set down his cart and proceeded to circle the car predaciously.

“Would you look at that? Flashy, undeserved status symbol with a vanity license plate reading D-L-Y-B-G-L. Vague yet identifiable scent of tobacco and self-hate. Well, hello there, Mr. Jameson,” Wade drawled.

He swiftly gathered up his cart and jogged back up the street a ways.

“Oh, gloriously lazy plot devices, I love you well,” Wade exclaimed with a grin as he began to sprint. The empty cart rattled alarmingly at each powerful snap of his hamstrings until he finally jumped onto the rickety metal frame and rode the momentum headlong into the driver’s side door of the Mercedes. The shattering of glass and crumpling of metal was complemented by the sudden wail of the car alarm. Adjacent vehicles took up the raucous song in a near deafening chorus.

Cackling as he rolled on the glass-strewn street, Wade finally managed to shove his femur back into socket and climb to his feet. “So worth it,” he said joyfully as he fled the blaring car alarms and merged back into the shadows.

There was only one thing left to do before he returned to his late-night vigil. Petey-pie’s suit was looking pretty worse for wear, and Wade knew just the person to help.

He scaled a nearby building and set off across the rooftops before dropping in through an open hatch on a nearby warehouse.

Green-clad Hydra soldiers milled about below in an aimless shuffle. It must have been shift change, Wade thought absently as he scratched his chin. Finally, his favorite idiot and cannon-fodder ambled into the hall, obviously on a mission if his spit-polished boots were any indication.

“Hey, Bob,” Deadpool called out, waggling his fingers in greeting from atop a stack of crates.

“Hail Hydra! Immortal Hydra! We shall never be destroyed! Cut off a limb and two more will take its place!” Bob immediately roared in response, arm upraised. Winded, he glanced around until he caught sight of a flash of red towards the ceiling.

“Oh, hello Mr. Wilson! What are you doing here?” he asked, somewhat dazed.

Wade leapt down from his perch and landed heavily, placing a comradely arm around Bob’s shoulders and pulling him in close enough to whisper in his ear.

Bob looked around uneasily, but leaned in to meet him half-way.

“Remember how you were telling me the other day about those nitrogen nanny-bot underroos that Hydra was creating… was supposed to make your duds invincible or some shit?” Wade asked in a hushed tone. He pulled them back behind the stacks of boxes as a patrol passed through the hall.

“You mean the Kevlar weave with nitrile overcoat and nanobotic regeneration capacity?” Bob whispered back.

“Yeah, sure. I need that, Bob.”

Hydra Bob sputtered for a moment and scrabbled his fingers against Wade’s forearm as the comradely hold began to morph into a not-so-friendly head-lock. “But Mr. Wilson, I’m not even in Research and Development. I can’t even get in the door without,” he wheezed. 

Air was getting harder to come by.

“I don’t give a fluffy biscuit turd, Bob!” Wade yelled directly in his ear. “I got someone who needs that shit, so fuckin’ figure it out!”

With a yelp, Hydra Bob stumbled forward and rubbed the side of his head. 

“Sure, Mr. Wilson, sir. What are pals for, sir? I’m…I’m just gonna go do that…that thing real quick,” Bob whimpered as he took a hesitant step back and bolted like the devil was on his heels. Wade chuckled and sat back to wait.

He wasn’t idle for long before Bob came careening around the corner in a hail of gunfire, blaring sirens, and red, flashing lights.

“Time to go, Mr. Wilson!” he screamed in passing, never slowing. Bullets pierced Wade’s chest in a meandering line and pattered against the crates.

“Mother fucker, I just dry-cleaned this one,” Deadpool groaned, absently tossing a grenade over his shoulder and following Bob’s panicked screams. Somehow, his pet Hydra agent had managed to sprint the entire way back to Wade’s apartment building on adrenaline alone before giving any indication of slowing. He promptly collapsed into a heap of refuse and let the steaming container of what Wade assumed was the protective coating prototype roll across the dirty asphalt. “There…you…go…pal,” Bob panted, eyes screwed shut tightly. “If it’s…not any…trouble. I’m just gonna…pass out now.”

“You’ll smell like hobo piss in the morning, but whatever floats your boat,” Deadpool stated to an already comatose Bob. He smashed open the glass front of the container and pulled out what appeared to be a small spray can with ‘Directions: 1. Aim, 2. Spray, 3. Annihilate’ scrawled in dramatic block print across the back.

“Side effects may include sudden onset of urges for world domination, inexplicably poor targeting accuracy, a penchant for bondage gear, and erectile dysfunction. Consult your doctor if these symptoms persist for more than the entirety of your young-adulthood,” Wade droned in an affected baritone as he skipped up the stairwell to his Baby Boy.

Pleased with the night’s events, he sauntered into his apartment and softly shut the door with his hip. The cramped space was completely still except for Peter’s soft, near silent breaths. Not a single tactically-placed pile of debris was shifted and there was still a blue-clad ass pleasantly immersed in his sofa.

Wade’s chest tightened at the comfortable domesticity of it all.

The can of nanobot armor joined several bottles of lube and cologne perched like sentinals on Wade’s dresser. Upgrading Spider-man’s suit would of course have to wait until it was off of his body. 

Wade lingered on that thought a bit longer than was appropriate and abruptly retreated into his bedroom for a quick shower. Perhaps a cold shower. 

He stepped out of the bathroom accompanied by a plume of humidity and pulled on a pair of clean sweat pants, shirt in hand. To be honest, the kid was in the mercenary’s bare-chested company pretty regularly on the weekends. And he never seemed to have to politely turn to vomit or anything, so fuck it. Wade shoved his shirt back into the dresser drawer and absently tossed his mask onto a crate of black-market firearms next to his bed before returning to the kitchen.

He retrieved a stale taco from the fridge and sat heavily next to Peter’s school bag. It stared at him accusingly until he shoved the entire taco in his mouth without fanfare and cleared a space among the field of metal rasps, black-market shears, and gunpowder measures on his small dining table.

“Okay, you can do this, Wade Wilson” he said as he rifled through Peter’s notebook and pulled out the kid’s English assignment. After a quick perusal, his cheery outlook took an about face. “Well, fuck me, no you cannot, Wade Wilson.” The mercenary stared in horror at the seemingly innocuous assignment sheet, dragging his hand slowly down his face and rocking back in his chair.

A long moment passed as he thoroughly regretted his life choices. 

But he had to do this; Peter was depending on him. To that end, he slid a random burn phone over and absently punched in #69 to autodial. “I would like to phone a friend,” he muttered, unamused. 

The other line rang several times until finally connecting.

“Hey, Hawk-guy,” Wade drawled as he absently toyed with a loose thread on his sweat pants. “You got a minute?”

“Yeah, so, I may or may not have got this mission where I’m  _ 21 Jump Street _ -ing it undercover at the highschool,” he began, cut off almost immediately.

“For the sweet jailbait ass, why do you think? Anyways, if I want to pass this English class, I’ve gotta ‘construct an essay that ‘demonstrates what you’ve learned about discourse communities, reviews relevant literature, and describes your methodology and your findings.’ For once, I’m going to be honest with you: I don’t know jack shit about discourse communities. Replace the ‘dis’ with ‘inter’ and I would be set, but otherwise I don’t have a single fucking clue where to even start. Help a brother out?”

Angry muttering turned to blaring static in the small breakfast nook.

“Fine, help a vaguely tolerable acquaintance out?”

The angry muttering grew louder.

“Don’t you dare hang up that phone, Barton. I swear to God, I will haunt you! I will make your life a living hell until you finally succumb to avian flu, then I’ll strap on my concrete boots and jump into the goddamn Hudson just to follow you into the afterlife and piss on your little Casper the friendly ghost soul,” Wade hissed into the phone, shifting the device against his shoulder and snatching up a gun oil rag from the table to violently wring it in his fists. Clint’s sharp retort and subsequent lengthy diatribe made the speaker crackle in Wade’s hand. He quickly cupped his palm around it to contain the noise and protect the sanctity of his Petey-pie’s sleep.

“Alright. Yeah, yeah…the whole you catch more shitty-ass, second string Avengers with honey stint. Fine. I need you, Master Hawkeye. You’re my only hope,” he exclaimed in an affected falsetto. 

The other line cut out abruptly with a click. 

“You better not have hung up on me. Barton? BARTON,” Wade hissed into the dead line.

“MOTHER FUCKER!” he whispered fiercely so as not to wake up Peter. Filled with impotent rage, Wade shadowboxed the air and screamed silently to the ceiling. Seriously, how the fuck did Peter handle this level of bullshit as long as he had? How did anyone survive high school, for that matter? Breathing heavily, the mercenary finally settled himself back at the intimately small dining table and stared at the English assignment sheet, eyes unseeing. With a defeated moan, he booted up his laptop. 

This was a job for Google.

Five hours later, a four page essay response on ‘Discourse Community Ethnography’ sat dolefully on the printer tray in the adjacent office. Wade dragged himself out of the now permanent indentation pressed into his chair cushion and stapled the small packet together, placing it in Peter’s folder with a satisfied grunt of approval. Murder was substantially easier than this English Honors bullshit

Wade rubbed his scarred hands together and jogged in place. Now it was time for the good stuff! “Aww yeah, time to be one with my inner Betty Crocker.” 

He snatched his favorite apron from where it hung on the pantry door handle and donned it in a swirling transformation sequence that would put Sailor Moon to shame. With a final flourish, he smoothed the stiff cotton down his chest and glanced appreciatively at the graphic of Spiderman’s torso and upper thighs gracing the front.

The apron was truly a work of art.

Following the work of deft fingers and with practiced ease, the sweet, pungent aroma of pancakes quickly inundated the apartment.

It made it up Peter’s nose, who still lay sprawled all over Wade’s worn out sofa, and tingled softly in his brain. It was enough to finally wake him up, after a solid 12 hours of undisrupted sleep, and so he blinked in confusion and rubbed his sleepy eyes. He did not lie in his bed. He did not even lie in his house. There was only one place on earth that looked this crammed, chaotic, neglected and shabby and still filled Peter’s heart with the warm feeling of being at home. 

He was at Wade’s. 

He sat up and rubbed his eyes again, looking around. Wade was nowhere to be seen, but from the wonderful smell that came from the kitchen, Peter assumed Wade was making a late breakfast for them. Late breakfast… What time was it?! 

“Shit!” he exclaimed as he jumped off the sofa. He almost bumped his bare toe against the living room table, but managed to avoid it narrowly. Okay, the time had to wait. He had to pee really really badly. 

He rushed over to the bathroom, hopping over and maneuvering around all the stuff that was littering Wade’s floor and slammed the door shut behind him. His bladder hadn’t been emptied in over half a day. This was an emergency.

After having washed his hands, he splashed some of the cold water into his face. It somehow felt crumpled and numb. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept this long without even his full bladder being able to wake him up. Sighing, he propped himself on the sink and let water-droplets fall from his face. 

Alright. This was bad. He had apparently slept at Wade’s place for the entire night, meaning he hadn’t managed  to bring the groceries or - and this was far worse - the medicine over to Aunt May. She was also probably panicking over Peter’s whereabouts, as he hadn’t been able to tell her he would sleep over at a friend’s house. Just the image of his sick aunt trying to explain to the police that her nephew was missing made his stomach turn. He gripped the rim of the sink tighter and gritted his teeth. 

He was the worst nephew ever. He was terrible. Even the biggest tongue-lashing Aunt May could give him was not enough for the trouble he had caused her again tonight. Yes, again. Aunt May was already in so much trouble because of him.

He let go of the sink and grabbed a towel to dry off his face and then stepped outside of the bathroom again. He could hear Wade hum in the kitchen now. Yeah, right. He had troubled Wade tonight, too. Everyone was having a hard time just because Peter couldn’t keep his shit together. Ugh, this was GREAT. This was  _ just _ great.

With a sheepish look in his eyes, Peter snuck into the kitchen, his bare feet tapping lowly on the floor. 

“Good morning,” he mumbled, stopping in the door way. 

His softly spoken words fell on deaf ears as Wade swayed his hips to an inaudible salsa beat, apron strings bouncing along with the tempo. He absently flipped a sauce-pan’s worth of fluffy, golden-brown godsend with a sharp flick of his wrist and spun in place, catching it neatly on a plate in midair. A flash of red out of the corner of his eye immediately caught Wade’s attention.

“Petey!” he exclaimed happily. “Well, if you aren’t the sexiest Rip Van Winkle I’ve ever seen.”

“... Yeah, funny,” Peter commented and absent-mindedly ruffled his own hair. Was it telling that he wasn’t even surprised or confused anymore by the sight of Wade in an apron, dancing through the kitchen to music only he himself could hear? Probably was.

“Listen, I’m sorry for yesterday. I - … I just was - ... I’m sorry for making you worry. I was just a bit exhausted and I didn’t want to drag you into this. And I’m sorry I’ve slept on your couch all night. I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble.”

The mercenary quickly turned back to the stove to hide his too-honest smile. “Oh, my couch cushions will never be able to recover from having known the glory of your sweet, nubile ass cheeks. You are right to apologize, you know? For what other buttocks could ever hope to match that one glorious moment in a sofa’s life when Peter Parker ruined it for all other derrieres,” he retorted in mock horror, voice unusually husky. He hurriedly busied himself with pouring more batter into the pan.

Peter just ignored Wade’s teasing, even though it somehow made his stomach prickle. Normally he would have come up with something witty or maybe pretendedly annoyed, but this time he didn’t feel like joking or giving in to Wade’s humour. He wasn’t in the mood for anything fun.

“I’m being serious,” he said, leaning against the door frame by now. “I am sorry. I remember how things went before I apparently fell asleep and I remember what we said and did. I made you worry. I made you take care of me. And I’m sorry for both of those things. Also I occupied your sofa and now you’re making me breakfast. Instead I should be home with my aunt who is probably worried sick - and also sick apart from that - and should make breakfast for  _ her _ with the groceries I was supposed to buy yesterday but didn’t. So if you could tell me where you put my phone… I really need to call her. I majorly fucked up yesterday night.”

Blood pounded in his ears as Wade’s heart clenched. He remembered last night too. The feel of Peter’s weight cradled in his arms, warm against his chest, was a memory that wouldn’t be forgotten any time soon. He swallowed heavily against the tightness in his throat.

“Apparently your memory isn’t as great as you think it is in your old age, Baby Boy. I shoved your phone back in the same dimension that I keep my ring pops, or at least the more PG Spider-man equivalent,” Wade drawled as he tossed an exaggerated wink over his shoulder. 

The raised edges of his roving sores wrinkled with the motion, leaving behind the ghost of what should have been laugh lines.

“Anyways, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I took care of all that.”

The pan sizzled and popped as another fat pat of butter swirled around the rim.

“... Took care of what?” Peter sounded alarmed. He rummaged around in his hidden phone pocket and got the device out, switching it on to look at the display. 2 new messages. Oh God…

He opened them, mentally preparing for some worried “Peter, where are you?!”s or similar contents that would make his guilty, sorry heart bleed, but all they read was: 

**Aunt May 11:38PM**   
\- _Alright, darling. Take care of yourself. Please be home again sunday night._

and:

**Aunt May 11:42PM**   
\- _If you think I will never send you shopping again after buying the whole store, you were wrong!_

Peter blinked in utter confusion. “Wha-...?” he stammered, staring at the display. He read the messages again while shaking his head, trying to understand what was going on. “What, what… What did you do? Oh God, what did you do, Wade?” 

Wade quickly abandoned the stovetop at the first note of panic in Peter’s voice. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strode over to the kid and raised his glove-less hands between them in placation.

“Now, hear me out before you chew me out. Last night you passed out in my arms. Like full out fainting Disney Princess montage, complete with woodland critters and everything…it was beautiful.”

The sudden furrowing of Peter’s brow hurried along his retelling.

“Anyways, so I swept you away like a knight in Kevlar armor and brought you back to the bachelorific sanctuary of the Deadpool cave to catch some Z’s. It was way closer than Aunt May’s,” he continued with a shrug of his muscular shoulders. “I kinda remembered you freaking out about her being sick, and school, and stuff, so I did your shopping and ran it over to her place. It was like a heroic ding-dong-ditch. Except that I ain’t no hero and I texted her first and after from your phone, pretending to be you. Not sure what that makes it. Huh,” 

Wade absently scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin and stared pointedly at Peter’s bare feet.

“I also may or may not have told her that you were having a sleep over with one of your super hunky friends from work and that breakfast may be involved if it went well.”

To put a stop to his nervous gesticulations, Wade settled his massive hands on Peter’s shoulders and braced himself to face the kid’s wrath. It was almost alarming how perfectly Peter fit within the scoop of his palms. 

Though, the stray curl of smoke wafting under his nose was admittedly a bit more alarming than his current emotional crisis. “Ah shit!” he exclaimed, sprinting back to his now charred pillow of what-should-be-deliciousness.

Peter watched as Wade attempted to save the burning pancake, unable to say anything. There was a cold feeling that clawed at his chest and tightened it, making it hard to breathe. 

“You… You did what…?” he asked again, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “You… went shopping for Aunt May…? You texted her…?”

“Wha? Yeah, of course,” Wade called back, distracted. The poor, smoldering pancake was a lost cause.

Peter gulped. He opened his mouth to reply, but found himself being stuck. His mind went blank. There were no words even so much as forming in his mind that he could try to bring out somehow. Instead there was this error message flashing in his brain again.

He felt his throat tightening and his eyes watering up. Then he choked out a sob and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh God,” he whined, muffled by his own palms. “Oh God, Wade, I am so sorry about this…”

“Jesus, Pete,” Wade called out, forcibly flinging the hot pan in the direction of the range. The flesh of his left palm curled away from the heat in shiny, bloodless ribbons. But the pain went completely unnoticed as he ran to pull his friend into the safety of his arms. It felt like the world was coming down on him.

“Shit, please don’t cry! Are you about to pass out again? Do you need mouth to mouth? Talk to me, babe,” Wade rambled, voice trailing off into a reedy whine.

“I - I’m - I’m sorry,” Peter stammered, leaning against Wade. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I made you do this! This is all my fault! First I made you worry and then I - … You - … You did all this for me, and you didn’t have to, and I’m so sorry I burdened you with his. I’m a horrible friend and a terrible nephew and a pathetic human being all together. I cause nothing but trouble. This was my problem and I couldn’t deal with it and then you had to step in and save me. Carry me here and let me sleep on your couch and do all my work for me, because I failed to do it myself. And now you’re even making me breakfast, and you even thought about texting Aunt May and I - … I just - … God, I even made you feel sorry right now for actually having helped me out! I’m a disaster! I’m so sorry, Wade! I can’t - … You - … I - …” 

A massive sob stopped Peter’s guilt-laden monologue of self-loathing and he slung his arms around Wade’s broad back. The warmth of the other and the feeling of his strong body against his own was so reassuring and comforting. And yet here he was again, crying like a baby, hating himself for whining and complaining and being sorry, hating himself for having to hate himself, and just crying out some of the exhaustion that was settled so deep within him that no amount of sleep could ever erase it. 

“You don’t deserve this…” he sobbed against Wade’s chest. “I’m sorry I did this to you… I’m sorry for crying… I’m sorry for everything…”

Wade pushed Peter back and shifted both of his hands to hold the kid’s face between them. The past twenty-four hours had come full circle it seemed.

“Stop,” Wade commanded him firmly. A stray tear trickled into one of the raised welts on his thumb as if in defiance. With a sigh, he leaned down slowly enough for Peter to pull away if he wanted to. Even splotchy and sniffling back a gallon of snot, the kid was stunningly beautiful.

“Just, stop,” he whispered before pressing his chapped lips chastely against Peter’s. The tang of salt on his tongue sent a pang of unbridled fondness straight through Wade’s chest. Spider-Man was a pillar of strength in every regard, but Peter needed support, needed protection. And Wade would be damned if he let that void go unfilled.

He reluctantly broke the gentle kiss and brushed his fingers through the tangled mess of Peter’s hair. For a long moment, both men stood in stunned silence.

“So, pancakes?” Wade finally asked.

Peter sniffled, blinking the last tears out of his eyes, and then managed to smile a little. Who knew that a kiss was the answer to all of his heart-wrenching pain?  

“Mh-mh,” he shook his head, sniffling once more.

“First another kiss. Then the pancakes.”

He raised one of his hands and placed it on Wade’s cheek, softly stroking his thumb over the rugged skin of his loved one.

“And then maybe again some kisses after that.”


End file.
